“Nope. You?”
“Nope.” She did not mention rosters or situationships. “Crap. I gotta go.”
“What’s the rush? It’s only seven AM here. Oscar won’t be in yet, will he?”
“No, but I start every day by sending him an email as soon as I sit down, to show him I’m here and working. I don’t want to give him any excuse to fire me.”
“Fine. And oh—warning: Mum and Dad want me to line up a call so they can talk some sense into you. They’re worried the longer you stay, the less you’ll want to come home. There is plenty of replaying of your errors in judgment over the years, which, they’re complaining, is a multitude.”
True. The time she’d bought a car with her own money, even though everyone had said it was a clunker, so she could drive across the country and shoot a documentary about it. It had made it an hour outside of Toronto only to catch fire on the highway. Or the time she’d left her debit card in the bank machine and assumed there was no need to cancel it, until her account was drained within the hour. Or when she’d insisted on moving into a dive with roommates who seemed sketchy at best … to find out it was a full-on crack house. Every humiliating incident, each attempt at independence and proving herself, forced her back into the Linden fold, needing assistance of one kind or another. And there were more stories where those came from.
“You can tell them I’ve sold the house,” said Marlow, “so they can shut it.”
“What!?You couldn’t have led with that? They’ll be so relieved. Me too.”
“I know, right? For once, I didn’t screw up. Or, rather, I unscrewed the screw-up I made in the first place.”
“Speaking of screwing, let’s double back to the French boys. Two different personalities. Two different income levels. Whichdoor will she choose?Porte numéro un ou porte numéro deux? Oh God. I’m living vicariously through you. Pathetic.”
“Sure is. Goodbye and good riddance,” said Marlow, signing off. She wasn’t sure which door she’d choose either, and counselled herself to choose neither. But as she passed a window and saw Guillaume in the vineyards, cleaning up with the workers after the storm and looking very fine while doing so, she felt her resolve rapidly fading.
At the Jardin du Luxembourg’s wrought-iron gates, a man played an old-timey wind-up organ balanced on the wheels of a baby pram. As he turned the crank, old, thick accordioned punch-cards were pulled through the organ, unfolding from a lavender-colored suitcase, and refolding themselves on the other side. The tinkling music made it seem as if they were stepping through a portal into a magical world.
And indeed, it was another world. The Jardin had a palace, for crying out loud, with an octagonal pool, and manicured gardens and lawns.
Sabine pointed to a“pelouse interdite”sign. “I don’t know if you were aware, but you can’t walk on the grass here.” Aubin laughed.
Along wide gravel paths, people sat on pale green metal chairs, enjoying the July weather, or strolled and took photos. A team of athletes jogged by. The threesome found a clutch of chairs and sat by the pool, watching children sail vintage-style wooden sailboats.
“Those are called‘les voiliers du Jardin du Luxembourg,’ ”said Yves, as he affixed a lens to his cell phone, “or‘p’tit voiliers.’Children rent them.” He pointed to a green hut on the edge of the pool, beside which a wagon had a dozen or so sailboats on display. A sign read“Location de voiliers: 6 euros pour 30 minutes.”Kids crowded around the wagon with their parents, picking the boat they wanted.
“You choose a boat with a country’s colors and initials on its sails,” said Aubin. “I used to play here every time we came to Paris. You pick your country partly for fun, partly to know which boat is yours. And you get a long stick so you can push your boat away from the edge. Then you run around to the other side and push it off there when it reaches shore.”
“The boats aren’t motorized?”
“No, they sail by the wind.”
Sabine loved how real and in the moment this was, just like this whole trip. Not being at the mercy of social media, the internet, email, texting, phone calls, every waking moment of every day. It felt endless, how connected she was meant to be.
“It reminds me of the boats inMadeline,” she said.
“I gave you this book when you were little,” said Yves.
“Really? I don’t remember that.” What she could remember were its butter yellow pages, with soft greens and blues in the illustrations.
“You were just a tiny thing, how could you? I wasn’t able to be there when you were small, but I sent you the book so you’d know I loved you.”
Sabine’s stomach did a flip. The way he said it, it sounded like he’d been prevented from being there when she was little. And yet, the way her mum had painted it, he’d been the one to decide to be absent. To not even send a card or phone, for months, often years at a time.
A woman approached—older than Sabine and Aubin, but probably ten years younger than Yves. She was beautiful with long brown hair, lightly curled as if she’d just come from a salon, tight jeans, a sleeveless shirt, toned arms, and full make-up.
“Bonjour chérie,”said Yves, exchanging kisses on both cheeks. He introduced Isabelle, his lead actress, and explained hismovie’s storyline. She played a woman who was leaving her husband: a man who meant well but had no capacity to love others more than he loved himself. Over the course of the movie, she managed to break free from the marriage. The film was almost done, but Yves felt the audience needed to know more about her thought process right before she left for good. He wanted Isabelle to write a goodbye letter in the park as ordinary life happened all around her. Later, Isabelle would record voice-over to accompany it.
“Won’t the crowds disrupt the shot, or stop to watch? Are we allowed to shoot here?”
Yves shook his head. “Location permits in Paris are a nightmare.”
“But your films are so successful,” said Aubin. “Why not shoot in a studio?”
